True Partnership
by HeartandHome
Summary: Sherlock and Joan contemplate the meaning of their partnership and the crumbling barriers that lay between them. (Rated for future chapters)
1. Chapter 1

I envy Watson's ability to sleep through the night. The ability to block out the world and it's ever growing stimuli is a talent to be commended. I am however loathe to admit it, to commend her would be to admit my own weakness, and she knows entirely too much about my weaknesses as is. As if sensing my inner turmoil, Watson rolls over to face me. The parted curtains allow her to be bathed in moonlight highlighting her high cheekbones and the gentle curve of her lips. N _ot to mention curves of another nature_. I frown, pushing away the intrusive thoughts. Watson's beauty is obvious to anyone with eyes - myself included. But it isn't her beauty that's been invading my thoughts. _Not only her beauty_ , my mind corrects.

I push a strand of hair from her face, smothering the desire to smile as she moves closer. After Irene I convinced myself I would never love another woman again. Irene was _the_ woman: an ethereal beauty, incredibly intelligent, sensitive to the minutia of daily life like myself. No mere mortal could ever touch me so deeply.

"Sherlock."

She's not awake, not really, yet the desire to put physical space between us claws at my very being. These past few years have been quite the education for her, but not just in deduction. When I first met Joan Watson I wrote her off as a babysitter, stupid really given how perceptive she was even then. By the end of our second day together, Watson had deduced the sort of man I was. In so many ways like a child: brash, prone to temper tantrums, wielding honesty like a single stick. And so very afraid of connecting with anyone. That moment, when I felt her staring at me through the glass of my holding cell, that was when I knew Watson was dangerous. That's when I _knew_ if ever there was another person I could connect with, it was her.

For the first month I'd tried to create distance. Resisting revealing any bit of myself save for my massive intellect, in which I drew great pride. But each time I hurt her, each time she invested in me and I purposely let her down, something in me cracked. Social niceties took too much effort - effort that could be better spent solving crimes. And yet, her sadness, her disappointment, it grates on my nerves. Her happiness on the other hand, does wonders for my mood, especially if it's case-related.

A simple truth which led me to try to delay her departure, which led me to sit with her in a clinic for an hour when I could have been musing over my apiary. It was a truth that in my moments of madness and insomnia first led me to watch over her. Watson is not the best or even the most complicated being I have ever come across, but she is real. It was obvious to me that from the beginning, before even knowing an iota of my often depraved psyche, her heart was open to me. People were not often so selfless or so brave.

This was why, I so often reasoned with myself, on occasion my mind looked upon her not as my companion and friend but as my true partner. My romantic partner but without all the rules and tiptoeing such entanglements required. It was why, as I crouched before her in that bank vault (so close incidentally that my breath tickled her face), I nearly chucked rules out the window and gave into the desire to kiss her; why I crashed her family dinner and sang her praises to her family. _Why her entanglements with Mycroft wounded my ego so deeply_. I have always been a territorial man, always protected what was mine, but this primal instinct had never been as powerful as it was with Watson.

She shifts again, tucking a slender hand under her cheek. The motion startles me out of my reverie for just a moment. _When had I gotten so close?_ My lips are only inches from hers and I find myself loathe to move away. After all we've been through she really should be more sensitive to the presence of an intruder. _I must speak to her about the depth of her sleeping_. Joan might label my current behavior as obsessive, but she never pushes me away.

"Sherlock?"

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the fact that she calls out to me in her sleep sparks a little pleasure. I'm not the only one affected by our partnership.

"Go back to sleep Watson."

I whisper, my every intention centered on returning to my work and allowing her to rest in peace. But then she reaches out for me, her delicate fingers wrapping around my wrist and tugging me closer. One eye opens slowly then the other, her sleepy gaze running up and down my face, before settling on my mouth unconsciously. I find myself chewing on the corner of my mouth, my gaze suddenly equally as fascinated by her lips. _When will this madness end_?

Several times throughout the years I have deduced both Watson's attraction and the considerable effort she puts into suppressing it. We're two attractive adults, such things are natural. But living together as we do, as open and honest as we do, no secrets between us, one would assume any attraction which had never been acted upon would die off.

"Hard to sleep when you're staring at me."

Much to my delight it's not an admonishment, not really. She slides over on the bed, creating space should I wish to sit down. Most days I ignore the gesture, but tonight for whatever reason is different. Tonight I sit on the bed, basking in the warmth radiating off her body, allowing her to stroke my forearm without flinching and without pulling away. I openly mock the institution of marriage; monogamy, I've felt in the past, is for fools. But what then is this?

Watson and I live together, we take our meals together, we work together. We are in almost every sense of the word a monogamous couple. Even the frequency with which we seek sexual fulfillment elsewhere has remarkably decreased, although neither of us would dare comment on it. Myself, I find it most uncomfortable entering women in the flat; a sense of guilt washes over me in the moment, whenever I think of Watson, especially since she knows when I am satiating myself with the flesh of others. Above Mycroft and even my father, Watson was the one person whose loyalty I valued - who I felt I owed my loyalty to. Partnership, marriage, call it what you like but weren't we engaging in a relationship all the same?


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I continue stroking his forearm, taking pleasure in the way the fine hairs tickle my palm. It's a rare moment when Sherlock allows me to get this close. Usually he's on the verge of some sort of breakdown - Irene, potential drug relapse, both. At first I thought it was that he didn't like to be touched, but lately I've wondered if I have it all wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he likes it too much. I tug at his arm until his hand unsticks itself from the bed and hangs limply in mine. Sherlock has turned me into an excellent investigator. It's why I did some digging into sensory perception sensitivity and why I suspect Sherlock to be one of these highly sensitive persons. Looking back, I knew by our second day together that he was a man capable of great connection but one who was also incredibly afraid.

"I don't know what you're talking about Watson."

His voice comes out strangled, as if he's been cornered, and in a way I suppose he has. But he put himself in my room. _As he so often does_. I trace each digit with my index finger, memorizing the feel of them in case I never get another opportunity. It seems silly but I envy his sexual partners sometimes. I who have so much of him, more than anyone I suspect (except maybe for Irene), jealous of the women who occupy his bed.

And yet, on the nights when he's feeling particularly vigorous and I happen to be making tea in the kitchen, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have all of him. To feel this calloused fingertips slide against my bare skin after a particularly difficult case. In so many ways this man is mine, my permanent partner, and just once I want to feel his lips on mine. It's a greedy thought, one I don't often indulge. Tonight however is a different story.

"Okay."

His eyes can't meet mine, though he makes a valiant effort. I watch as they flicker up to the spot just above my eyebrows and back down to my lips. _Does he feel something too_? Sherlock has made plenty of sexual innuendos throughout the years but I've always figured any initial attraction he might've felt fizzled out long ago.

"Watson?"

Sherlock clears his throat, catching my attention. I was so tucked away in my own musings I failed to notice he is unconsciously returning my touch - caressing the underside of my hand as I trace patterns in his skin. I should stop now, respect the boundaries we've spent years tending. _But they're crumbling the longer we live together whether we like it or not_.

"I'm sorry" I say softly, dragging my hand away and tucking it under my other arm. The pull to continue touching him is so strong, I wonder idly if I should ask him to leave. But Sherlock, like the overgrown child he is, will take that as rejection and I will never reject him.

"Not at all." He leans down on one elbow, close enough for our lips to touch. He's slowing his breathing down. I watch in fascination as his nostrils flare slightly, wondering what he would do if I claimed him right here and now. Judging by the dilation of his eyes, he's certainly considering something similar.

"Go to sleep Watson," he says, placing a chaste kiss on my forehead. The spot burns as he disappears into the darkness, closing the door behind him. Sleep. As if I could sleep after the most romantic moment I've ever shared with Sherlock Holmes. I fall onto my back, laughing. My most romantic moment with Sherlock - allowing me to touch his hand and kissing me on the forehead. I was pathetic.

 _Tomorrow we are going back on trueromantix and we are not stopping until we've found someone to sleep with_. Love is no longer something I'm searching for. After Andrew, I realize that no one will be safe from my life with Sherlock. But as the man has reminded me several times, sex is a biological imperative - one I would need in order to focus. _And not to fantasize_. I kick off the covers suddenly hot despite the snow right outside my window.

Two minutes pass before I realize I'm wide awake. Damn Sherlock and his prowling. I can still feel the place where his lips met skin, can still imagine the feel of his fingers. I close my eyes, sliding my hand down my breasts, tweaking them in my fingers, imagining him hovering over me in the way he so often does. My other hand drifts lower, across my stomach to the wet juncture between my thighs.

"Mmm Sherlock," I moan, louder than expected. My body is ready and in need of the fingers dipping deep inside. I make quick work of it, getting incredibly close in minutes, the squelching sound of my fingers rapidly pumping my wetness piercing the night. _So close,_ my mind chants, painting Sherlock's face in my thoughts. It's only when I get close to orgasm that I hear it, the slightest creak outside my door. _Tell me he didn't hear that_. I stay frozen for a good minute, feeling a tiny bit guilty about fantasizing about my partner, until I'm sure I'm alone.

It's only as my body relaxes and I drift back into reality that I wonder what my partner would make of me touching myself while thinking of him. I doubt he would be disgusted, Sherlock is much too liberated for that. If he were in a good mood, he'd probably ask whether his fantasy self performed to my satisfaction. Worst case scenario he'd be unsettled. I frown at my ceiling, now more awake than I was before.


End file.
